


A Sea of Feathers

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Gen, Kid Fic, Kid John Watson, Kid Sherlock, Kid Sherlock Holmes, Kidlock, Mild Language, Pillow Fights, fluffy crack, lots of swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-09 20:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has no friends so Mycroft gets him one (it's John).</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sea of Feathers

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt by outsiderescape on Tumblr, fluffy crack involving young Sherlock and John.
> 
> We take crack requests/prompts! You can submit one to us at: consultingcrackaddicts.tumblr.com/ask  
> We'll post it on the blog and here on Ao3. :]

 

Sherlock was sitting at his house being a loner with no friends. It really sucked for him because at seven years old, he had only just discovered the joys of showing off and getting attention.

“Why won’t anyone be my friend?!” he cried obnoxiously.

“Because you’re obnoxious and weird looking.” said Mycroft from the doorway.

“Fuck you, fatty!” yelled Sherlock.

“Sherlock, omg, you’re seven years old! You can’t use language like that!” Mycroft scolded, “I’m telling mummy, you tiny dick!” He stalked off down the hall. “And I’m not fat!” he yelled, leaving a pissed off and crying Sherlock in his wake.

“Whatever, I’m old enough to swear.” said Sherlock, scowling. “And he’s just jealous that I’m not also the size of the tree-house.” And then he cried some more because what else was he going to do with his time, it’s not like he had any friends to play with.

 

 

Little did he know, his fat brother was sympathetic to his plight.

“Mummy, I think Sherlock needs some friends or something, or he might fuck out and be a crazy person later on in life.” He explained to their mother.

“Well fuck, we can’t have that, can we?” she said, “Go and find him one.”

So because Mycroft is already ruler of the world at this point, he skipped off into the garden, and the town beyond it, to find Sherlock a friend.

 

 

He based his search in the local park. He found a tiny blond child in the sandbox, by himself. He was playing sadly with a manky pillow.

“Hello there, what’s your name?” asked Mycroft kindly, sounding like some sort of fucking predator.

“...John?” answered the boy quietly.

“John, that’s a lovely name!” Mycroft lied. John was a plain-as-horseshit name and by the looks of the kid’s face, he knew it too.

“Anyway,” Mycroft said quickly, “Why are you alone, don’t you have anyone to play with?”

“Well, that’s fucking rude.” said tiny John, hitting Mycroft with the manky pillow.

In that moment, Mycroft knew that this kid was perfect for Sherlock, so he scooped him up in the big sack he had hidden about his person and quickly exited the park, because he knew he looked shady as fuck.

 

 

Sherlock was in his room again, doing nothing particularly interesting (because he still had no friends), when Mycroft walked in with a heavy sack. Sherlock glared at the fat umbrella enthusiast, then at the sack, and then back at Mycroft.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“I’ve brought you a present - a friend.” said Mycroft, dumping the contents of the sack on to Sherlock’s rug.

A tiny John tumbled out, accompanied by a rank looking pillow that landed softly on top of him. A little face with blue eyes, framed by blonde hair, peered out from under the jacked-up pillow at Sherlock. Nervously, Sherlock put his fingers in his mouth and looked questioningly to Mycroft.

“He really wants to play with me?”

“Probably not, but we’ll give it a go. There are more where he came from.” said Mycroft, totally un-phased by the cute-fest going on before him.

“Anyway, have fun. If it doesn’t work out, we’ve got a big garden to hide the body in, so don’t even worry.” And with that, Mycroft fucked off.

Still uncertain, Sherlock observed the little person in the middle of his room. The boy, John, stood up. And then he was like,

“Hi, my name’s John.” Because it was. He seemed nice enough, so obviously Sherlock flipped his shit because he was so excited at the opportunity to tell someone how great he was.

“Hello John, I'm Sherlock.” he said, “What’s that pillow you’ve got there? Hardly looks like an exciting kind of toy.” He looked dismissively at John, and then proudly at the impressive array of toys lining his walls, because he’s a rich child and also a budding douchebag. His eyes settling back on John, he noticed that the other boy was looking sadly at his jank-ass pillow.

“My sister, Harriet, got nits. She spends a lot of her time sleeping in the toy box, so they got on all the toys as well. We had to throw everything out - this is the only thing I have to play with.” John explained.

Sherlock felt like an asshole.

“Oh,” he said. “Well, I mean, I don’t know that it’s not fun. I’ve never played with a pillow before. Is it... Good?” he asked, trying to not seem like such a gigantic dickhead.

It seemed to work, as tiny John smiled brightly at him.

“I’ll show you!” he said excitedly, glad that someone wanted to be his friend still, even after they knew about the nits. Kids can be fucking cruel about that shit. “Grab your own pillow, and then come over here.”

Sherlock followed the lice-infested boy’s instructions.

“Now what?” he said curiously. Or, he would have said, but a face-full of sand-covered, soggy pillow hit him square in the face.

“Oof!” he said. Oof is right. He looked at John, confused, but John was giggling.

“Go on!” said John, “It’s your turn!”

Sherlock looked down at his own plump pillow, and then back to John, before pathetically flapping the pillow in his direction. John’s smile faltered a bit.

“No, you have to give me a really good whack, it’s fun!” He said, demonstrating again. Sherlock reciprocated the hit, getting John right across the chest. They both laughed squeakily, like tiny tweakers.

“Now what?” asked Sherlock, excited to progress in this new-found (read: shitty) game.

“Well,” said John, “We basically just smack the fuck out of each other with pillows until it stops being funny.”

“Wow!” said Sherlock.

Not because the “game” sounded all that impressive, but because he was desperate to not be an asshole anymore. Also because he kind of liked John’s little giggle and his foul mouth and his rough play - he wanted this boy to be his friend. So he hit him and hit him with his not-shitty pillow, while John committed assault and battery (but in a fun way) with his own pathetically sad one. They didn’t notice that the pillows had burst until they we just waving pillowcases at each other.

“It’s okay!” Sherlock said, through a mouthful of feathers. “I’ve got more!”

And so they had a second round of giggling and stumbling and beating each other’s tiny bodies, only this time they were both armed with fat, feather pillows.  
When those pillows were just as spent as the first, the collapsed into a heap of down, rolling around like small crack addicts in a mountain of cocaine.

“You were right John, that was a fun game!” said Sherlock, desperate to ass-kiss his new friend. And also because it was kind of a blast. John grinned and stopped wiggling.

“Yeah, pillow fights are the best.” He said. Sherlock giggled in reply, waving his arms around, spreading their pillows entrails all over the floor.

 

 

They lay in the sea of feathers, resting, while more feathers drifted slowly from the ceiling, twisting gently through the air like some bird-flu kind of snow. Sherlock shook the white from his curls and looked shyly at John.

“John?” He sounded so sweetly apprehensive; it was the most adorable fucking thing.

“Yes?” John answered, smiling contentedly at his new buddy.

“Do you want to, um, be my friend?” Sherlock asked, looking nervously at his hands, which were buried in a small pile of feathers. He didn’t see John’s delighted smile.

“Of course, silly! I thought we already were!”

“Really?” asked Sherlock, looking up quickly, his tiny face all hopeful and shit.

“Demolition of expensive pillows is automatic ground for friendship.” John said seriously. Sherlock’s blue eyes widened as he internally flipped out.

“Oh, of course,” He said, trying to pretend like he already knew that, but we all know he didn’t, John included - he was pretty plugged in for a person of seven. Luckily for Sherlock, John was a good friend, who would let his bullshit slide.

“Yeah. Of course,” He said, smiling. Then, because he was a free-loading motherfucker, he starting hitting Sherlock up for some food.

“I’m really hungry. Do you have any afternoon tea?” He asked shamelessly.

“Yes!” said Sherlock, eager to please, and to show off his expensive country home to his obviously poorer friend. “Let’s go get nanny to make us some sandwiches!”

“Fuck yeah!” said John, and they scampered off to the kitchen, leaving the four busted up pillows and all their insides all over Sherlock’s room, for some other poor sod to clean up. As if they fucking cared, they were pirates who sailed on a sea of feathers, motherfucker.

 

 

And from that day forward, they were best friends, content to wreak havoc and fuck up other people’s days wherever they went, future honey-badgers of society.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! (Comments are very much appreciated... :])
> 
> Info regarding requests/prompts can be found in the notes at the top.


End file.
